At one point during his meditation
training at Wat Liap, Ãcariya Mun’s citta ‘converged’ into a state of calm and
a vision arose spontaneously. The mental image was
of a dead body laid out before him, bloated, oozing
pus, and seeping with bodily fluids. Vultures and
dogs were fighting over the corpse, tearing into the
rotting flesh and flinging it around, until what
remained was all scattered about. The whole scene
was unimaginably disgusting, and he was appalled.

From then on, Ãcariya Mun constantly
used this image as a mental object to contemplate at
all times – whether sitting in samãdhi,
walking in meditation, or engaging in other daily
activities. He continued in this manner until, one
day, the image of the corpse changed into a
translucent disk that appeared suspended before him.
The more he focused intensely on the disk, the more
it changed its appearance without pause. The more he
tried to follow, the more it altered its form so
that he found it impossible to tell where the series
of images would end. The more he investigated the
visions, the more they continued to change in
character – ad infinitum. For example, the disk became a tall
mountain range where Ãcariya Mun found himself
walking, brandishing a sharp sword and wearing
shoes. Then, a massive wall with a gate appeared. He
opened the gate to look inside and saw a monastery
where several monks were sitting in meditation. Near
the wall he saw a steep cliff with a cave where a
hermit was living. He noticed a conveyance, shaped
like a cradle and hanging down the face of the cliff
by a rope. Climbing into the cradle-like conveyance,
he was drawn up to the mountain peak. At the summit,
he found a large Chinese junk with a square table
inside, and a hanging lantern that cast a
luminescent glow upon the whole mountain terrain. He
found himself eating a meal on the mountain peak…
and so on, and so forth, until it was impossible to
see an end to it all. Ãcariya Mun said that all the
images he experienced in this manner were far too
numerous to recall.

For a full three months, Ãcariya Mun
continued to meditate in this way. Each time when he
dropped into samãdhi,
he withdrew from it to continue his investigation of
the translucent disk which just kept giving him a
seemingly endless series of images. However, he did
not receive enough beneficial results from this to
be convinced that this was the correct method. For
after practicing in this manner, he was
oversensitive to the common sights and sounds around
him. Pleased by this and disappointed by that, he
liked some things and hated others. It seemed that
he could never find a stable sense of balance.

Because of this sensitivity, he came
to believe that the samãdhi which he practiced was definitely the
wrong path to follow. If it were really correct, why
did he fail to experience peace and calm
consistently in his practice? On the contrary, his
mind felt distracted and unsettled, influenced by
many sense objects that it encountered – much like a
person who had never undergone any meditation
training at all. Perhaps the practice of directing
his attention outwards towards external phenomena
violated the fundamental principles of meditation.
Maybe this was the reason he failed to gain the
promised benefits of inner peace and happiness.

Thus, Ãcariya Mun came to a new
understanding about himself. Instead of focusing his
mind on external matters, he brought his citta back inside, within the confines of
his own physical body. From then on, his
investigations were centered only on his own body.

Keeping a sharp mindfulness, he
examined the body from top to bottom, side to side,
inside out and throughout; every body part and every
aspect. In the beginning, he preferred to conduct
his examinations while walking in meditation, pacing
back and forth in deep thought. Sometimes he needed
to rest his body from these exertions. So, he sat in
samãdhi for awhile, though he absolutely
refused to let his citta ‘converge’ into its habitual state of
calm. Rather, he forced it to stay put within the
body’s domain. The citta had no other choice but to travel
around the many parts of the body and probe into
them. When it was time for him to lie down, the
investigation continued inside his mind until he
fell asleep.

He meditated like this for several
days until he felt ready to sit in samãdhi and try to attain a state of calm
with his newly discovered method. He challenged
himself to find out what state of calm the citta could attain. Deprived of peace for
many days now, and having begun the intense training
associated with body contemplation, his citta ‘converged’ rapidly into a calm state
with unprecedented ease. He knew with certainty that
he had the correct method: for, when his citta ‘converged’ this time, his body
appeared to be separated from himself. It seemed to
split into two at that moment. Mindfulness was in
force during the entire time, right to the moment
that the citta dropped into samãdhi.
It didn’t wander and waver about as it had
previously. Thus, Ãcariya Mun was convinced that his
newfound method was the right one for the
preliminary work of meditation practice.

From then on, he continued to
religiously practice body contemplation until he
could attain a state of calm whenever he wanted.
With persistence, he gradually became more and more
skilled in this method, until the citta was firmly anchored in samãdhi.
He had wasted three whole months chasing the disk
and its illusions. But now, his mindfulness no
longer abandoned him, and therefore, he was no
longer adversely affected by the influences around
him. This whole episode clearly shows the
disadvantages of not having a wise teacher to guide
one. Misjudgments occur without timely advice and
direction in meditation. Ãcariya Mun was a perfect
example of this. Having no teacher can lead to
costly mistakes that can easily harm the meditator,
or, at the very least, delay his progress.

DURING ÃCARIYA MUN’S early years as a
wandering monk, people showed little interest in the
practice of kammaååhãna meditation. Many regarded it as
something strange, even alien to Buddhism, having no
legitimate place in the life of a monk. Back then, a
dhutanga monk, walking in the distance on the
far side of a field, was enough to send country folk
into a panic. Being fearful, those still close to
the village quickly ran home. Those walking near the
forest ran into the thick foliage to hide, being too
scared to stand their ground or greet the monks.
Thus, dhutanga monks, wandering in unfamiliar
regions during their travels, seldom had a chance to
ask the locals for much needed directions.

Women from the countryside often took
their small children on excursions into the
surrounding hills to pick wild herbs and edible
plants, or to fish in outlying ponds. Suddenly
spotting a party of dhutanga monks walking toward them, they would
yell to each other in alarm, “Dhamma monks! Dhamma
monks are coming!” With that they threw their
baskets and other gear to the ground with a thud,
and frantically rushed to find a safe hiding-place.
Their discarded belongings could have been damaged
or broken when flung to the ground, but they took no
notice; everyone simply fled into the nearby forest,
or if close by, to their village homes.

Meanwhile the children, who had no
idea what was happening, started crying and pleading
for help when they saw their mothers scream and run
away. Too slow to keep pace with the adults, the
little ones raced around in confusion. Stranded,
they ran back and forth in the open field while
their mothers remained in the forest, too frightened
to emerge and retrieve them. An amusing scene of
needless panic, but at the same time pitiful: to see
innocent children so frightened, running in circles,
desperately crying in search of their mothers.

Obviously the situation didn’t look
good, so the dhutanga monks hurried past lest their
prolonged presence provoke even more hysteria. Had
they made any attempt to approach the children, the
incident might have gotten out of control with
terrified kids frantically scattering in all
directions, their shrill screams ringing through the
forest. In the meantime, their anxious mothers
huddled, trembling, behind the trees, afraid of the
‘Dhamma monks’ and, at the same time, afraid that
their children might flee in all directions. They
watched nervously until the monks were out of sight.

When the monks finally disappeared, a
big commotion erupted as mothers and children dashed
excitedly about, trying to find one another. By the
time the whole group was safely reunited, it seemed
as though the entire village had disbanded for
awhile. The reunion was accompanied by a hubbub of
chatter, everybody laughing about the sudden
appearance of the ‘Dhamma monks’ and the chaos that
followed.

Such occurrences were common in those
early years: women and children were terrified
because they had never before seen dhutanga kammaååhãna monks. Ordinarily people knew nothing
about them and showed little interest, except to
flee at their sight. There are several possible
reasons for this. Firstly, their appearance was
rather austere and reserved. They were unlikely to
show much familiarity with anyone they hadn’t
personally known for a long time; someone who knew
their habits well. Also, their robes and other
requisites were an ochre color from dye made from
the heartwood of the jackfruit tree – a color that
was striking but had a tendency to inspire more fear
than devotion.

These jackfruit-colored robes were
worn by dhutanga monks as they wandered from place to
place practicing the ascetic way of life. They
carried their umbrella-tents, which were
considerably larger than ordinary umbrellas, slung
over one shoulder. Over the other shoulder they
carried their alms bowls. Walking in single file and
dressed in their yellowish-brown robes, they were an
eye-catching sight to those as yet unfamiliar with
their mode of practice. Finding a quiet spot,
conducive to meditation, dhutanga monks settled for a while in the
outlying forests of rural communities, allowing the
locals a chance to get better acquainted with them.
By listening to their teachings, questioning them,
and receiving their advice, people’s lives benefited
in so many ways. Gradually over time, their hearts
grew to accept the reasonable explanations they
heard, and faith issued naturally on its own. With a
belief in Dhamma thus instilled in their hearts, old
suspicions died away to be replaced by a reverence
for the monks whose teachings made such an
impression. Then, to those well acquainted with
their peaceful temperament and exemplary conduct,
the mere sight of monks walking across the
countryside inspired devotion. During that early
period, such enlightening experiences were shared by
country people all over Thailand.

Traveling far and wide, and
determined to practice correctly for the sake of
Dhamma, dhutanga monks always managed to impress
people and do them great service. They didn’t depend
on publicity to get out their message. They relied
instead on their exemplary behavior as a natural
means of gaining public interest.

A dhutanga monk who is concentrated on Dhamma
considers wandering in search of seclusion to be an
indispensable part of his personal practice.
Secluded places offer his mind and body a calm,
quiet environment. So it was with Ãcariya Mun. Each
year at the end of the rainy season retreat he
started traveling, hiking through forests and
mountains in locales where he found just enough
small villages to support his daily almsround. More
than any other part of the country, he enjoyed
wandering in Thailand’s Northeast region. Among his
favorites were the vast forests and mountain ranges
in the provinces of Nakhon Phanom, Sakon Nakhon,
Udon Thani, Nong Khai, Loei, and Lom Sak; or on the
Laotian side of the Mekong River in such places as
Tha Khek, Vientiane, and Luang Prabang. Those
locations with their huge tracts of forest and
mountainous terrain were ideally suited to
practicing the ascetic way of life.

Wherever he was, whatever the time of
day, Ãcariya Mun’s primary focus remained the same:
working tirelessly to improve his meditation
practice. He knew that this was his most important
task in life. By nature, he disliked involvement in
monastic building projects. He preferred to
concentrate exclusively on the inner work of
meditative development. He avoided socializing with
fellow monks and remained aloof from civil society,
much preferring life alone – a style of living that
allowed him the freedom to focus all his attention
and energy on one main task: transcending dukkha.
Earnestness and sincerity characterized everything
he did: never deceiving himself, he never misled
others.

The incredible energy, endurance, and
circumspection that he put into his practice was
truly amazing. Qualities such as these helped to
ensure that samãdhi and wisdom steadily progressed, never
showing any signs of decline. Since the day he first
discovered body contemplation to be the right method
for the preliminary work of meditation, he kept that
contemplation always in mind. Assiduously
maintaining that method, repeatedly investigating
his body, over and over again, he became very
skilled at mentally dissecting the various body
parts, large and small, and then breaking them apart
with wisdom. Eventually, he could dissect his entire
body at will and then reduce the whole lot to its
constituent elements.

Through perseverance, Ãcariya Mun
steadily and increasingly attained more peaceful and
calmer states of mind. He wandered through forests
and over mountains, stopping at suitable locations
to intensify his practice; but, never did he relax
the persistent effort he put into all his
activities. Whether walking for alms, sweeping the
grounds, washing a spittoon, sewing or dying his
robes, eating a meal, or simply stretching his legs,
he was aware of striving to perfect himself at every
waking moment and in all activities, without
exception. Only when the time came to sleep did he
relent. Even then, he resolved to get up
immediately, without hesitation, as soon as he
awoke. He made sure that this habit became ingrained
in his character. The moment he was conscious of
being awake, he rose quickly, washed his face, and
resumed his meditation practice. If he still felt
sleepy, he refused to sit in meditation right away
for fear of nodding off to sleep again. Instead, he
practiced walking meditation, striding back and
forth to dispel the drowsiness that threatened to
overtake him at the slightest lapse in vigilance. If
walking slowly proved ineffective, he sought to
invigorate himself by quickening his pace. Only when
all drowsiness disappeared and he began to feel
tired did he leave his meditation track to sit down
to

Shortly after dawn, he prepared to go
on his almsround. Wearing his lower robe, placing
his under and upper robes together and wrapped about
him, his alms bowl hanging from his shoulder by a
strap, he walked to the nearest village in a
self-composed manner, careful to maintain
mindfulness the entire way. Considering his hike to
and from the village a form of walking meditation,
he focused his attention inward every step of the
way, insuring that his mind did not venture out to
become involved with any emotionally-charged sense
object along the route. Returning to his campsite,
or the monastery where he resided, he arranged the
food he had received in his alms bowl. As a matter
of principle, he ate only the food he was offered in
the village, refusing to accept any food brought to
him afterward. Only much later, in his very old age,
did he relax this practice somewhat, agreeing to
accept food that the faithful offered him in the
monastery. During his early years, he ate only the
food he had received in his alms bowl.

With everything to be eaten placed in
the bowl, he sat contemplating the true purpose of
the food he was about to eat as a means of dousing
the inner fires of hell; that is to say, any craving
for food that might arise due to hunger. Otherwise,
the mind might succumb to the power of craving and
indulge in the fine taste of food, when in fact, it
should be reflecting on food’s essential qualities:
how all food, being simply a composition of gross
elements, is inherently disgusting by its very
nature. With this thought firmly fixed in his mind,
he chewed his food mindfully to deny any opening to
craving until he had finished the meal. Afterwards,
he washed the bowl, wiped it dry, exposed it to
direct sunlight for a few minutes, then replaced it
in its cloth covering, and put it neatly away in its
proper place. Then, it was time once again to resume
the task of battling the kilesas,
with the aim of destroying them gradually until they
were thoroughly defeated and unable ever again to
trouble his mind.

It must be understood, however, that
the business of destroying kilesas is an inexpressibly difficult task to
accomplish. For though we may be determined to burn
the kilesas to ashes, what invariably tends to
happen is that the kilesas turn around and burn us, causing us
so much hardship that we quickly abandon those same
virtuous qualities that we meant to develop. We
clearly see this negative impact and want to get rid
of the kilesas; but then, we undermine our noble
purpose by failing to act decisively against them,
fearing that the difficulties of such action will
prove too painful. Unopposed, the kilesas become lord masters of our hearts,
pushing their way in and claiming our hearts as
their exclusive domain. Sadly, very few people in
this world possess the knowledge and understanding
to counteract these defilements. Hence, living
beings throughout the three worlds of existence are
forever surrendering to their dominance. Only the
Lord Buddha discovered the way to completely cleanse
his heart of them: never again did they defeat him.

After achieving that comprehensive
victory, the Lord Buddha compassionately turned his
attention to teaching the way, proclaiming the
Dhamma to his disciples and inspiring them to
resolutely follow the same Noble Path that he had
taken. Practicing thus, they were able to emulate
his supreme achievement, reaching the very end of
the Noble Path, the highest attainment: Nibbãna.
Dealing the all-powerful kilesas a fatal blow, these Noble individuals
eradicated them from their hearts forever. Having
extinguished their kilesas,
they became those Arahant disciples that people the
world over have worshipped with such devotion ever
since.

Ãcariya Mun was another Noble
individual following in the footsteps of the Lord
Buddha. He truly possessed unshakable faith and
uncompromising resolve – he didn’t merely talk about
them. When the morning meal was over, he immediately
entered the forest to begin walking meditation in
those peaceful surroundings that were so conducive
to calm and inner happiness. First walking, later
sitting, he pursued his meditation until he felt the
time was right to take a short rest. His strength
renewed, he resumed his attack on the kilesas, creators of the endless cycle of
existence. With such determination and steadfast
application to the task, the kilesas were never given reason to scoff at
Ãcariya Mun’s efforts. While practicing samãdhi intensively, he also worked
tirelessly to develop insight, his wisdom revolving
relentlessly around whatever object he was
investigating. In that way, samãdhi and vipassanã were developed in tandem, neither one
lagging behind the other; and his heart remained
peaceful and contented in his practice.

Still, periods of slow progress were
inevitable, for he had no one to advise him when he
got stuck. Often he spent many days working his way
through a specific problem, painstakingly figuring
out the solution for himself. He was obliged to
exhaustively investigate these stumbling blocks in
his practice, examining every facet carefully,
because they were a hindrance to his progress and
also potentially dangerous. In such situations, the
advice of a good teacher can be invaluable, helping
the meditator to advance quickly and confidently
without wasting time. For this reason, it’s very
important that meditators have a kalyãõamitta.
Ãcariya Mun personally experienced the drawbacks of
not having such a wise friend to give him timely
advice, insisting that it was a definite
disadvantage.